‘Even this meagre dwelling will be sold next week,’ he said, slumping down on it. ‘And I shall go to live in the country with my mother. I shall not be sorry. These last few weeks have been a dreadful ordeal, and if your father had not bought most of my clients, Silas, I would be rotting in debtors’ gaol.’
‘We understand you knew a man named DuPont,’ began Chaloner quickly, loath to dwell on what happened to those who could not pay what they owed.
‘Yes – we met in the Feathers,’ replied Everard. ‘An insalubrious place, I know, but I happen to like dancing girls. The Feathers’ lasses loved DuPont, and whenever I sat with him, they paid me much attention, too. Naturally, I went out of my way to encourage him to my side.’
‘Yet the tavern’s staff claim not to know you,’ remarked Chaloner.
‘I used a false name to stop my mother from finding out,’ explained Everard with the ghost of a smile. ‘She does not approve of that sort of place.’
‘DuPont was a spy. Did he discuss that work with you?’
‘A little. He told me that he planned to acquire certain documents from Dutch merchants who live in the city, although he never explained how.’
‘By sticking a hook through their windows and fishing them out,’ supplied Chaloner.
Everard blinked his surprise. ‘Really? Lord! The talents of some people! Anyway, once he had them, he was going to sell them to the government. He knew one of the Lord Chancellor’s retainers, and arrangements had been made.’
‘Does the term Onions at the Well mean anything to you?’
Everard shrugged. ‘I heard him say it a couple of times, but I have no idea what it meant. However, it may have had something to do with the St Giles rookery – we were walking past it once, and he talked about onions and wells before disappearing into it.’
‘There, Tom,’ said Silas in satisfaction, once they were out on Cheapside again. ‘All you have to do is visit this rookery, and you will have all the answers you need.’
Unfortunately, Everard’s testimony was not as useful as Silas believed, as the area was vast and Chaloner doubted he could just stroll in and find what he was looking for. Moreover, most cases of plague were there, so it was a risky place to be. He supposed Silas had forgotten the outbreak, because he was sure his friend would not have recommended that he go there otherwise.
As it was on his way home, Chaloner decided to deal with Oxley’s dog, so walked to the lane that ran along the back of the henchman’s house. He soon understood why Shaw and Lettice did not want it in their garden. It was a squat, bull-chested bitch of an unusual silvery grey, which set up a furious barking when he scrambled up the wall to look. No one came to investigate, so he supposed the Oxleys were still watching the fire. The beast wore a collar with her name painted in large white letters, and he was not surprised to learn that she went by the appellation of Slasher.
He looked down at her while he considered his options. He could easily lob a knife and be rid of the problem permanently, but he suspected that Oxley would just buy another. Moreover, as Lettice had said, the situation was hardly Slasher’s fault. Then he happened to glance across the lane. The house opposite belonged to a butcher, whose distinctive cart was parked in the yard. Chaloner smiled as a solution began to form in his mind.
It was not easy to lasso Slasher with his belt, especially when she was so determined to bite him, but he managed eventually. He hauled her up, and wrapped his coat around her head before she could do him any damage. Plunging her world into darkness served to quieten her somewhat, which allowed him to climb the butcher’s wall with her slung over his shoulder.
The cart was packed with goods ready for delivery the following morning. Chaloner gently placed Slasher inside it and removed his coat and belt. She shook herself furiously and released an angry snarl, but then her brain registered the delicious aroma of raw meat. Her eyes lit up, and she gave an excited yip before pitching in to the delights around her.
A light went on in the butcher’s bedroom, and Chaloner had only just scrambled back over the wall before the door to the yard was flung open and the man appeared with a cleaver. Slasher broke off from her repast just long enough to chase him back inside, then returned to her meal. It was clear that she was going to enjoy a very pleasant interlude until Oxley came to reclaim her.
Chaloner grinned as he walked away, brushing dog hairs from his coat. Devouring the contents of a butcher’s cart was rather more serious than preventing neighbours from using their latrine, and Oxley would be liable for costs. He doubted Slasher would be in residence on Cheapside much longer, but fierce dogs had their price, so Oxley would sell her. She would live to see another day, the butcher would be reimbursed, and the Shaws would have safe access to their garden. In fact, everyone would benefit except Oxley, which was exactly how it should be.
He emerged on Cheapside, but had not gone far before a carriage drew up beside him. It bore the arms of the Company of Barber–Surgeons, and Wiseman was inside. Chaloner knew Misick was with him, because part of the physician’s massive wig was poking through the window – either that, or Wiseman was transporting a sheep.
‘You have the Cheapside cold,’ noted Wiseman when he heard Chaloner’s gravelly voice. ‘Several of my patients have come down with it, and two have been shut up in their houses because the damn-fool searchers cannot distinguish between common ailments and the plague. Unless the victim happens to be wealthy, of course, in which case they are open to suggestion.’
‘It is a sorry state of affairs,’ sighed Misick. ‘How is your remedy coming along, Wiseman? My Plague Elixir is selling so fast that I can barely keep up with the demand for it.’
Wiseman shot him a resentful glance, indicating that his own efforts in that area were less than satisfactory, for which Chaloner was grateful – he had not forgotten that Temperance had charged him to prevent the surgeon from testing it on a victim.
‘Speaking of the plague,’ he said to Misick, ‘did you mention your worm theory to Taylor? There must be some reason why he seems to think that he has some in his box.’
‘I thought it might serve to make him reflect on the frailty of life and render him a little kinder,’ replied Misick defensively. ‘I did not anticipate that he would harbour notions of collecting them up with a view to annihilating London.’
‘The man should be in Bedlam,’ declared Wiseman, who knew all about that place, as he had installed his wife there. ‘But I am in the mood for company. Come to Chyrurgeons’ Hall for dinner, both of you. My cook is making liver pudding.’
It occurred to Chaloner that it was rash to eat liver with Wiseman when there were pickled human ones in the jars in his laboratory, but he had eaten nothing since breakfast and was hungry. He climbed into the carriage, and began to cough when Misick lit a pipe.
‘Plague worms hate smoke,’ the physician informed him, waving a hand in an effort to see his companions through the fug. ‘And so do the ones that cause colds, so inhale as deeply as you can. Tobacco is an excellent tonic for congested lungs.’
‘Colds are not caused by worms,’ stated Wiseman dogmatically. ‘They come from changes in the weather. Chaloner caught one because it is cooler here than in Hull.’
Chaloner did not have the energy for the argument that would ensue if he informed them that London was milder than Yorkshire had been, so he held his tongue. Wiseman continued to pontificate until they arrived at Chyrurgeons’ Hall, a large precinct near the London Wall dominated by its curiously shaped Anatomy Theatre. The Master’s quarters were above the dining hall, and comprised a suite of beautiful rooms that afforded fine views of the surrounding rooftops.
Chaloner had always found it unsettling that Wiseman’s servants were missing various body parts. The cook had one arm, the groom had lost an eye, and the footman was missing a leg. He had never liked to ask whether they had been relieved of them by the surgeon, and he sincerely hoped the absent bits were not among the items displayed in the laboratory.
> All three fussed around their employer and his guests, plying them with great slabs of liver pudding, while Wiseman gleefully listed all the ingredients that had gone into it – lungs, thymus, skin, ears, eyelids and liver. Chaloner was glad that his cold prevented him from having functional taste buds. Eventually, Misick left, saying he had patients to see.
‘We shall stand guard tonight, sir,’ said the footman, once he had seen the physician out. He was wearing the kind of armour that had been donned by the less well protected members of the Royalist army during the civil wars. The groom was similarly attired. ‘We shall sleep in the hall downstairs, and no one will enter without us seeing.’
‘Why?’ asked Wiseman, bemused. ‘And watch where you are waving that sword, man! It almost took my head off.’
‘Because of the thieves. A number of folk have been burgled around here of late, but no one knows how the villains do it, because all the victims’ doors and windows are locked. Yet a lot of stuff has gone missing.’
‘It has,’ agreed Wiseman. ‘Temperance lost some curtains a couple of weeks ago. I do not hold with them personally, but she insisted on buying me some.’
He gestured to his windows, where fine lengths of green material hung. They clashed with the scarlet decor in the rest of the room, so it was no surprise that he had not taken to them. When the servants had gone, he talked about the plague measures that Williamson was implementing. Chaloner began to drowse, lulled by the droning voice and the comforting crackle of the fire in the hearth. But he snapped into alertness when one sentence penetrated his consciousness.
‘What?’
‘I said the reason that I was on Cheapside this evening was because I had a patient who lived in the house that burned down – Fatherton, whom I inherited from Coo. He summoned me a couple of days ago, because he thought he might have the plague.’
‘And did he?’ asked Chaloner uneasily, remembering the sneeze.
‘No, it was a heavy cold, but I thought I had better make sure, so I went to see him again this evening. When I arrived, the house was ablaze, and Misick, who had been listening to gossip among the spectators, says that Fatherton was inside.’
‘He was,’ said Chaloner, but did not elaborate.
The surgeon regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Did you catch your sickness from him? No, do not tell me. I prefer to remain in blissful ignorance where your antics are concerned. However, you should watch yourself if you intend to lurk around Bearbinder Lane. It lies in James Baron’s domain, and even I am wary of annoying him.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Because he is a cunning and dangerous criminal, who indulges in all manner of dishonest activities, although he has never been caught. His captains and trainband have sworn oaths of fealty, you see, and would rather die than betray him.’
Chaloner coughed and then sneezed.
‘You need an early night,’ declared Wiseman. ‘So you had better stay here. You can have the laboratory. It is the room furthest away from my bedchamber, and I do not want you keeping me awake with your snoring.’
‘I do not snore,’ objected Chaloner indignantly. ‘And that laboratory reeks.’
Not to mention the horrors that sat on the shelves, he thought, which were hardly conducive to restful repose.
‘Everyone snores with a cold. And you cannot breathe through your nose anyway, so reeks are immaterial.’ Then Wiseman brightened. ‘I have devised a certain mixture that I believe will alleviate the symptoms you are suffering, although I have not tested it on anyone yet. I do not suppose you…’
‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly.
Chapter 8
It was still dark outside when Chaloner was woken the next day by Wiseman moving about in the next room. He was tempted to go back to sleep, but the surgeon was making a peculiar scratching sound, which was annoying enough to keep him awake.
He rose and dressed in silence so as not to alarm the servants standing guard in the hall downstairs. He opened the laboratory door, but immediately heard the soft rasp of Wiseman’s breathing from the bedchamber opposite. Thus it was not the surgeon rustling about in the parlour. Curious, Chaloner crept towards the sound. The room was in darkness, but Chyrurgeons’ Hall kept plenty of lamps burning in its grounds, so some light drifted in from outside.
Someone was standing outside the window, but as the Master’s quarters were on the top floor, no one should have been there, especially at such an hour. Chaloner edged closer to see that a pane of glass had been removed, and a long stick with a hook on the end was thrust through the resulting hole. The implement inched across the table to snag a silver goblet, which was then deftly manoeuvred towards the window.
So here was a curber in action, thought Chaloner with interest, watching the cup disappear through the gap. Doubtless the pane would be replaced when the thief had finished, leaving nothing to show how the crime had been committed – both Wiseman’s groom and Temperance had commented on burglaries carried out with no sign of forced entry.
Within moments, the hook reappeared to snag one of Wiseman’s curtains. The material was pulled carefully through the hole, after which a few sharp tugs were enough to dislodge it from the fastenings that held it up. Chaloner was tempted to yank it back again, knowing what a fright it would give the culprit, but decided it would be better to catch the fellow instead. He ran lightly down the stairs to alert the servants, but they were fast asleep on the floor, and an empty wine jug suggested they would not be easy to rouse. He did not waste time trying.
He opened the door, and peered out to see that the thief had brought an accomplice – a second man stood beneath the window to catch what was pilfered and put it in a sack. The curber himself clung precariously to the ivy that grew up the wall. Chaloner tiptoed forward, but his nose began to tickle and he knew he was going to sneeze. He held his breath and clamped both hands over his face, but to no avail. It was a stifled sound, but the two men heard it anyway.
The accomplice fled. Chaloner tore after him, and brought him down with a flying tackle. When the fellow drew a knife, Chaloner stunned him with a punch. Then he leapt up to confront the curber, who had already scrambled down the ivy and was coming towards him. The fellow held a pair of handguns – almost certainly stolen, as such items were far too expensive to be bought legally by common criminals.
Chaloner dived behind a tree, and saw the flash of the weapon igniting in the darkness, followed a split second later by the cracking report. He heard running footsteps, and peered around the trunk to see both felons aiming for the gate. The curber whipped around to fire his second dag at Chaloner. He missed again, but not by much.
As the pistols were now harmless until they could be reloaded, Chaloner raced forward, but the Chyrurgeons’ Hall porter, appalled by the sound of gunfire in his domain, hurtled out of his lodge and lunged at him with such vigour that both went tumbling into the vegetable plots. By the time the misunderstanding had been corrected, the real culprits had escaped and lamps were bobbing all over the precinct as residents came to see what was going on. Wiseman was among them, clad rather bizarrely in a long red mantua with a matching nightcap.
‘What are you doing, Chaloner?’ he asked suspiciously, his robe billowing around him so that the spy was put in mind of an angry Old Testament prophet.
‘Saving your curtains.’ Chaloner pointed to where the sack had been abandoned, and briefly explained what had happened.
‘The scoundrels!’ cried a surgeon named Knight. ‘How dare they invade our home!’
‘They will not do it again,’ vowed Wiseman. ‘Our students will patrol it from now on.’ He glared at the porter. ‘And our guards will be more vigilant.’
He stalked back to his quarters, pausing only to grab the sack. When he reached his parlour, he upended it to discover that it held not only one of his curtains and the goblet, but a bag containing medicine, a valuable vase and a selection of clothing.
‘And this is what Fatherton did?’ he asked. ‘You said last ni
ght that he was a curber. Or rather, that he directed crews of curbers and nips, telling them where to go and when.’
Chaloner nodded. ‘But we cannot blame him for raiding you. He is dead.’
‘Yes, but Baron is not. It did not take him long to recruit a replacement, did it! Yet it is a pity you rescued this curtain, because now I shall have to put it back up, and I have never liked green – it reminds me of bile. The ones Temperance bought for the club were much nicer. Red with a hint of gold. Very smart.’
‘Red and gold?’ asked Chaloner sharply. ‘How many did she have?’
‘Well, the club has seven windows along the front, so she had seven pairs. Why?’
‘Because the Earl’s Great Parlour has nine windows that are roughly the same size, and his curtains – two pairs short – were delivered after hers went missing. He bought them from Baron.’
Wiseman gazed at him. ‘So did she. Do you think they were the same ones?’
‘It would explain why Baron declines to deliver the last part of the order – it does not exist.’
‘The Earl will not be pleased when you tell him that he has been decorating Clarendon House with stolen property,’ predicted Wiseman. ‘Rather you than me.’
It was still dark, but neither Chaloner nor Wiseman felt like going back to sleep, so the surgeon roused his servants and told them to make his breakfast. The groom and footman had dozed right through the rumpus, even the gunshots. Thus they were sheepish as they took his order – boiled eggs, smoked pork, toasted bread, eel pie, leftover liver pudding and an apple.
‘They were very quiet,’ said the footman resentfully, balancing precariously on one leg, because he had forgotten where he had left his crutches. ‘We never heard a thing.’
‘Like mice,’ added the groom, producing an apple from about his grimy person and handing it to his master with an ingratiating smile. ‘Very silent mice.’
‘Rogues!’ spat Wiseman when they had gone. ‘They were drunk on my wine, and that is why they heard nothing.’ He turned his attention to the apple. ‘These are good for you. I eat one every day, and it keeps me in excellent health. I should hate to be in a position where I am obliged to call a surgeon. I would not let one of those near me with a feather, let alone a sharp implement.’
The Cheapside Corpse Page 20